Read Online When the Tripods Came by John Christopher - Free Book Online
Authors: John Christopher
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about being like him, too—just about able to cope under normal conditions, without things like Tripping to contend with.
What I was suddenly aware of was the importance of their being whatever each of them was—cocky and contemptuous, or bothered and beaten—as long as it was something they’d come to in their own way: the importance of being human, in fact. The peace and harmony Uncle Ian and the others claimed to be handing out in fact was death, because without being yourself, an individual, you weren’t really alive.
The first class was meant to be chemistry, but there was no sign of the chemistry teacher. Hilda Goossens and a couple of others got on with their assignments. The rest of us talked. We stopped when the door flew open. It wasn’t Mrs. Green, though, but a hairy little Welshman called Wyllie, who taught physical exercise.
He shouted, “Right! School dismissed. Everybody out.”
Andy asked, “Why?”
He said importantly, “Police warning. The Exeter Tripod’s on the move. The path they’ve plotted takesit a couple of miles north, but they want everyone out of the area as a precaution. Get cracking.”
A boy called Marriott said, “I live in Todpole.”
Todpole was six miles north of the school. Wyllie said, “Well, you can’t go there. They’re evacuating along the route. It will probably be OK in an hour or two, but check with the police.”
In the bike shed I waited while Andy fiddled about. The shed was empty before he straightened up. I said, “Come on—we’re last.”
“I’ve been thinking.”
I said impatiently, “You can bike and think at the same time, can’t you?”
“I wouldn’t mind having a look at it.”
It took me a moment to realize he was talking about the Tripod.
“There’ll be a roadblock.”
“We can get round it.”
Can, not could. And we, which meant there was no way of backing out without looking chicken.
I said, “I don’t suppose it’s any different from the one we saw.”
“No, I don’t suppose it is.” He wheeled his bike out of the shed. “I’d still like to take a look.”
• • •
It was a bright day but the wind, blowing a swirl of leaves from the side of the road, had a wintry edge. There weren’t many people about, and they were all going the opposite way.
We found the roadblock half a mile out of town.A patrol car was slewed across the road with a policeman standing beside it smoking a cigarette, and another at the wheel. It was fairly obvious which way we’d need to go to get past it. To the left the ground fell away in open fields, but the higher ground on the right was wooded.
I said, “What about the bikes?”
“No sweat. Stick them in the ditch.”
Mine was new from my birthday a month earlier, a racer I’d been wanting a long time. I laid it down carefully by the roadside. We got through a gap in the hedge and made for the trees. Once under cover we stayed close to the edge of the wood. We passed within a hundred yards of the patrol car. The policeman who was smoking glanced our way but gave no sign of seeing us.
If we were invisible to him, the same would presumably apply to the Tripod, which made me feel better. I even began to feel lighthearted. There were bird sounds—a blackbird, the rowdy clatter of a pheasant. Normal country stuff. This was probably a wild goose chase, anyway—a wild Tripod chase. Even if it had moved it might stop again, as the one on the moor had, or change course. The trees ended, and we ducked under a fence into a field where Friesian cows were grazing. Here high ground on our left gradually fell away, giving a view across open country. You could see for miles—fields, copses, farmhouses. In the distance, sunlight dazzled from a river.
But there was something else in the distance, too, catching the sun with a colder gleam. And moving our way; I heard the thump of its passage above the noises of birds and cows.
Andy said, “The hedge.” We ran thirty meters across open
What I was suddenly aware of was the importance of their being whatever each of them was—cocky and contemptuous, or bothered and beaten—as long as it was something they’d come to in their own way: the importance of being human, in fact. The peace and harmony Uncle Ian and the others claimed to be handing out in fact was death, because without being yourself, an individual, you weren’t really alive.
The first class was meant to be chemistry, but there was no sign of the chemistry teacher. Hilda Goossens and a couple of others got on with their assignments. The rest of us talked. We stopped when the door flew open. It wasn’t Mrs. Green, though, but a hairy little Welshman called Wyllie, who taught physical exercise.
He shouted, “Right! School dismissed. Everybody out.”
Andy asked, “Why?”
He said importantly, “Police warning. The Exeter Tripod’s on the move. The path they’ve plotted takesit a couple of miles north, but they want everyone out of the area as a precaution. Get cracking.”
A boy called Marriott said, “I live in Todpole.”
Todpole was six miles north of the school. Wyllie said, “Well, you can’t go there. They’re evacuating along the route. It will probably be OK in an hour or two, but check with the police.”
In the bike shed I waited while Andy fiddled about. The shed was empty before he straightened up. I said, “Come on—we’re last.”
“I’ve been thinking.”
I said impatiently, “You can bike and think at the same time, can’t you?”
“I wouldn’t mind having a look at it.”
It took me a moment to realize he was talking about the Tripod.
“There’ll be a roadblock.”
“We can get round it.”
Can, not could. And we, which meant there was no way of backing out without looking chicken.
I said, “I don’t suppose it’s any different from the one we saw.”
“No, I don’t suppose it is.” He wheeled his bike out of the shed. “I’d still like to take a look.”
• • •
It was a bright day but the wind, blowing a swirl of leaves from the side of the road, had a wintry edge. There weren’t many people about, and they were all going the opposite way.
We found the roadblock half a mile out of town.A patrol car was slewed across the road with a policeman standing beside it smoking a cigarette, and another at the wheel. It was fairly obvious which way we’d need to go to get past it. To the left the ground fell away in open fields, but the higher ground on the right was wooded.
I said, “What about the bikes?”
“No sweat. Stick them in the ditch.”
Mine was new from my birthday a month earlier, a racer I’d been wanting a long time. I laid it down carefully by the roadside. We got through a gap in the hedge and made for the trees. Once under cover we stayed close to the edge of the wood. We passed within a hundred yards of the patrol car. The policeman who was smoking glanced our way but gave no sign of seeing us.
If we were invisible to him, the same would presumably apply to the Tripod, which made me feel better. I even began to feel lighthearted. There were bird sounds—a blackbird, the rowdy clatter of a pheasant. Normal country stuff. This was probably a wild goose chase, anyway—a wild Tripod chase. Even if it had moved it might stop again, as the one on the moor had, or change course. The trees ended, and we ducked under a fence into a field where Friesian cows were grazing. Here high ground on our left gradually fell away, giving a view across open country. You could see for miles—fields, copses, farmhouses. In the distance, sunlight dazzled from a river.
But there was something else in the distance, too, catching the sun with a colder gleam. And moving our way; I heard the thump of its passage above the noises of birds and cows.
Andy said, “The hedge.” We ran thirty meters across open
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